Lucas tilted his head and listened as the portrait began telling him a story, a story of a sealed manor, and the dark creatures that kept disturbing it.

At the same time, the other half of Argos was feeding back Walter's every move in real time.

The vampire had tried to find the junction where Lucas had disappeared. No luck.

Walter lingered on the road leading to the main house, then set down a scarecrow the size of a doll.

The moment it hit the ground, the scarecrow rapidly expanded, stretching across the space between the manor and the fountain. Its three-kilometer curse radius encompassed the main house exactly.

As Walter moved, the succubus mark on the wrist came into view.

Walter had only bought that sticker because it looked familiar. It was only after returning home and looking it up that the mark was confirmed to be a succubus brand.

What did a scarecrow have to do with a succubus?

Walter suspected it was the maker's twisted sense of humor. After that, whenever the sticker caught the eye, there was always a faint crawl of unease.

But the first transforming object had already proven the goods were genuine.

Walter patted the scarecrow with satisfaction.

To be absolutely certain, Walter took out a perfume bottle and pressed the bulb, releasing all the black mist.

With everything done, Walter settled into hiding in the shadows. Graham had passed the assessment, which meant Snape had outlived any usefulness. All that was needed now was Graham's blood, and then activating the identity in the certified room.

The other matters — that foolish child Graham had already handled.

Graham had given a surname. The surname devillote had been handed right over.

Lucas held a different view on that.

The vampire lying in wait had no idea that this seldom-visited place was, on this very night, receiving other uninvited guests.

In the latter half of the night, the fog over the countryside lay thick.

A wizard with a lame leg picked his way across the damp ground, one step at a time. The wooden leg sank into a muddy rut. There was a curse, and then a hard yank to pull it free.

The wizard traveling alongside raised a wand, and the ruts along the path ahead smoothed considerably.

A gust of wind swept the clouds off the moon, and the light around them brightened a little.

Muggle headlights swept over two figures walking alone deep into the night.

It was the same group from the dare outing. After fleeing more than ten kilometers, they had remembered the latest psychic program airing on television, the one everybody was watching.

The plan: plant people in the haunted house in advance, terrify the adventurers until they screamed, then broadcast their humiliation to households across the country.

If that was actually what was happening, turning back halfway would be no different from social death.

Besides — where in this world were there any real ghosts?

The blond explorer sat back and thought it through carefully, confirming that earlier there had been transparent fishing line wrapped around the doll. When the others heard this, they chimed in, listing off other spots that might be rigged.

There was a bulging section of wall near the entrance, that could be where a hidden camera was concealed.

And going by the building's structure, the second floor of an old house like that couldn't possibly have a bathtub. Yet the shape of the leak staining the roof was rectangular.

The three talked each other into it, and then came a sharp brake. They were going back to expose whoever was hiding in the shadows.

On the drive back, the mood in the car was electric. Rock music blasted through the speakers to sharpen nerves and bolster courage.

The car came to a sudden stop the instant it caught someone on the road.

The driver rolled down the window. "Where are you headed this late?" A heavyset, disabled figure stood with their back turned, the trench coat worn and shabby, but casting a shadow.

The passenger leaned out for a look.

The figure turned, revealing a disfigured face. The scars were jagged and vicious, one eyeball spinning wildly in its socket. Pair that with the wooden leg and the curled-back lip, and the overall effect was something out of a science fiction story, or something else that wasn't quite human.

The long-haired old man traveling alongside looked, on closer inspection, like an adult male. Someone who could have walked straight out of a fairy tale as the archetypal wizard, or like Tolkien's Gandalf stepped off the page.

Not ordinary humans, in any case.

The car strained to start and failed. The old man spoke in a cheerful tone. "Don't be afraid — we only attended a countryside-themed costume party and missed the last bus home." A glance at the three people in the car. "Could you give us a lift?"

The new arrivals were Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody.

This strange pairing had its origins in an anonymous letter Moody had received.

Had it been dropped into a letterbox, wariness would have won out, burned on the spot, or tossed in the bin. But whoever sent the letter knew Moody well. That letter had jumped out of the rubbish bin just outside the front door.

It leapt into Moody's path and opened itself.

The contents were attention-grabbing: a notice of a crime, laying out an imminent serious incident, one connected to the string of student hospitalizations that had been occurring at Hogwarts.

Moody had heard something of Hogwarts' unresolved troubles. And while Moody believed Dumbledore could handle such things, that was no reason not to pass the word along.

Unfortunately, the letter had burned itself upon reading.

After reviewing Moody's memory of it through the Pensieve, Dumbledore had actually proposed going to investigate together.

Dumbledore could be quite reckless at times.

Even for Moody, it would take more than a letter with no corroborating evidence to end up strolling down a country lane on the English border in the small hours of Christmas morning.

The letter's author was convinced that a great wrongdoing was unfolding nearby, one that would shape the course of wizarding society for the next several decades, and that could unravel a mystery that had plagued Hogwarts for years.

And so Moody had ended up crammed into a car with a handful of Muggles.

Dumbledore was seated in the middle of the back row. The space was suffocatingly tight, and Moody half-felt the magical eye might be squeezed right out of its socket.

"Would you tell me about your adventure?" Dumbledore asked the young people in the car with genuine curiosity.

Within the range blanketed by the black mist, a raven suddenly coalesced into form and dropped to the ground less than a meter behind Walter.

Sensing something wrong, Walter turned, puzzled as to how anything living could exist inside this manor.

Perhaps the estate was welcoming its heir, and some changes were beginning to take hold.

Walter moved to shoo the irritating raven away.

Then it rose into the air.

On its underbelly was a single eye, gleaming gold.

Walter was petrified.

➤ Next: Death Rock

Chapter 235 - Death Rock

If there was ever a time to take stock of Walter's life, it was now. There probably wouldn't be another chance.

Walter's skin had taken on the texture of stone. The tips of those slender, ashen fingers had gone completely gray.

A vampire possessed somewhat greater resistance to magic than a wizard caught in the Basilisk's gaze.

Walter couldn't move, but could still perceive faint changes in the surroundings.

A dark mass was slowly drawing closer. At first, Walter couldn't make out what the thing was.

It attached itself to Walter's back. At first it didn't quite fit, but gradually it merged with the petrified body, becoming one with it.

Walter's skin crawled.

Whatever had drawn near was an extremely dangerous Dark object. Walter was certain of it.

Back when Muggle blood had been sweet spring water, Walter had never imagined having to face Dark magic this vile in one lifetime.

Now, then. Walter's life.

When Lucas had walked into the old manor, Walter had inevitably thought of many years before, when Walter had still been a half-blood wizard. Still a human being.

Thirty years back, Walter had brought a sheltered, old-fashioned home education to an end.

Finally free from an obsessive wizard father. One fierce, uncompromising quarrel, and Walter had walked out the door convinced of the ability to carve a wide path in the world.

Instead, Walter stepped into the fading twilight of a declining wizarding world.

Much of the personal commentary submitted with the CV to Hogwarts had not been fabricated.

The Walter of those days, adrift, without direction, sought pleasure and excitement, numbing with sensations never tasted in the preceding decade or more.

And when the cruelty of the outside world finally made itself felt: a half-blood raised solely on home education could not make a name for oneself.

There was no essential difference between Walter and any other one of a thousand wizards. That realization hurt.

It wasn't that Walter had never attempted the prodigal-returns-home routine. It was simply that even family grows old.

Time was merciless. It took away Walter's last retreat.

It was precisely then that a grave-robber found Walter.

The other party had packaged themselves well, the same pitch as always. A long-lost relative. A wayward descendant who had drifted far from home. A desire to return. And, of course, a vast fortune.

Walter's heart stirred.

Walter followed that "relative" into the estate.

Those purebloods wanted an heir, but they had no intention of letting their family wealth be easily claimed. They always wanted to inflict suffering and grief, to put a person through dramatic rises and falls, bring them to their knees in despair, have them begging for a gift.

Walter's trial was floods and raging fire. And it was during that ordeal that Walter discovered the home education once looked down upon was not entirely without use.

By some unseen design, a father who had kept Walter confined for so many years gave one final lift. The knowledge accumulated through all those years of study carried Walter through the assessment.

Walter poured blood onto the symbol of the family.

The castle, sitting in the depths of a desolate wilderness, slowly came back to life.

That was the most powerful magic Walter had ever felt as a wizard.

The mountain breeze seemed to blow for Walter alone. The river played its music. Every room of the castle was renewed. There were no words adequate for it. That was magic itself.

Then the happiest period of that life passed.

The one who had guided Walter tore away the mask of warmth and bared vampiric fangs.

Walter had carelessly swallowed some vampire blood. But there had been a sharp edge to Walter in those days, and at the critical moment, Walter struck back and killed the vampire.

Walter watched the monster, run through the heart by a silver cane, vanish in the pale light of early dawn.

Then the dizziness set in. Senses fell into chaos. Walter collapsed onto the castle's rotted silk bedding, in the company of mildew, insect corpses, and rat droppings.

When Walter woke again.

A vampire.

Walter tried seeking a cure.

In the castle, there was indeed gold beyond ordinary imagination.

But the craving for blood grew stronger with each passing day, and perception of the world began to change.

In the real wizarding world, vampires had lost to wizards countless times across past wars. They were classified as Dark creatures, listed alongside werewolves. Wizards refused to even acknowledge that vampires had once been the same species as themselves.

Searching through the records of wizarding society, the overwhelming majority of adventure accounts agreed: vampires could only maintain a disguise for a very short time. Craving and greed drove them back into beastly instinct quickly enough.

Walter found a potion in the castle's library that could suppress the feral nature. That discovery later became one of the factors the Headmaster considered when agreeing to let Walter enter the school.

The potion worked remarkably well. Walter began seeking out other formulas.

Most pureblood families kept such things tightly to themselves.

After much going back and forth, Walter became a grave-robber.

The inspiration came from a Muggle novel, Interview with the Vampire, 1976. A beautifully crafted tale of horror. Muggles had given vampires many romantic elements that had no basis in the real world, and this gave Walter an idea.

Walter told the outside world of being a vampire who had lived for many, many years. In truth, that long lifespan had only just begun. No one would suspect a young-looking vampire of being anything other than long-lived. At least no ordinary person would.

The dark mass had attached itself completely to Walter's back.

After the petrification, Walter couldn't sense the body well, felt encased inside a heavy stone effigy. The first assumption had been that strange raven seen last, but the raven had given a different kind of feeling entirely.

Walter's mind remained lucid. But everything was beginning to slip out of control.

Behind Walter, the scarecrow gently embraced from behind. The burlap features seemed, from nowhere, to carry a kind of tender longing.

The scarecrow began to melt. It pressed itself against Walter, gradually fusing into one.

Ding, a silver pendant chain slipped out of Walter's pocket, then fell, pulled by its own weight, and dragged the locket down with it.

Thud — the heavy silver box opened of its own accord.

The metal began to dissolve and deform. A moment later it had become a delicately structured diadem.

The beautiful sapphire was the only thing that did not change.

Walter's hand twitched.

The body still wouldn't obey. But the surroundings were beginning to resolve, dim and indistinct, but visible. The spine felt as though it no longer belonged to Walter. There was a numb, involuntary bend at the waist.

Walter picked up the diadem from the ground and placed it on the head.

.

Three Muggles and two wizards sat inside a car.

It wasn't moving particularly fast, and it showed every sign of slowing further.

The Muggle in the passenger seat glanced into the rearview mirror from time to time. Those two strangely dressed elderly hitchhikers sat with their hands placed properly on their knees, conserving what space they could in the back.

To ease the atmosphere — and to bolster personal courage — the passenger-seat Muggle rummaged around and found a cassette tape. Eyes lit up. "This song is great!"

Click, the tape went into the player.

Venom's Welcome to Hell. Raspy-voiced heavy metal rock.

The knob turned to maximum. The wave of sound hit the car, and the Muggle in the back seat felt the urge to move with it, elbow knocking into the white-bearded old man beside him.

The white-bearded old man's eyes lit up.

He watched with curiosity as the Muggle in the passenger seat danced, already well beyond what a seat belt could restrain.

The Muggle in the back seat was astonished to discover that Gandalf had begun to sway in rhythmic time with the music.

Dumbledore's swaying had entirely failed to influence Moody.

Well, strictly speaking, it had.

The recently retired Auror found living space further compressed, head pressed against the car window. At this particular moment, fighting a pack of werewolves seemed preferable to being trapped inside this metal box.

Moody was profoundly resistant to the whole business. The magical eye had stopped rotating entirely, fixed on the view outside the window, as far from the Headmaster's position as possible.

Dumbledore caught on quickly.

One song finished, and the tape jammed.

Everyone in the car was left wanting more. The atmosphere had warmed up considerably.

"Would you tell me about that adventure you mentioned earlier?" Dumbledore asked with curiosity. "When I was young, I was rather fond of exploring all over the place myself..."

➤ Next: The Only Hope